CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My sister sang to all her dolls, but only one sang back" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 9, 2020

My sister sang to all her dolls, but only one of them sang backCREEPYPASTA STORY►by eternallyks: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

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combe. I hear the singing of the cursed girl. My little sister, Sarah, took good care of all the dolls, but she didn't sing to any of them the way she did to this one. She gave each one of a dolls a name and what one might call a theme song. Just a silly little diddy about how pretty they were and how they would be best friends forever with a hair of silk, eyes of gold, heart of rose, things like that. She was five years old after all.

But this one doll of hers, this old doll she named Amandine, had a different song, much different. It took her a while to come up with it, or should I say, it took her a while to learn it. It started out as a hum,

and then a bunch of la la laas, before she started muttering symbols that almost made of a language but remained unintelligible to everyone who heard her. But the melody was always the same each time, an anchor for the chaotic randomness of the words. It sounded like a folk song or a nursery rhyme. It had a distinguishable stanza and a refrain, a recursive melody and structure but no meaning.

Not yet. Everyone else in the house knew that melody by the end of the first week of her picking up on it. She sang it to herself incessantly when she thought she was alone, in a room in the garden, while distracted from her colouring books or while waiting for an egg to bowl in the kitchen. Then she started adding words, but none of us understood them as words. We thought it was a lot more nonsense syllables,

which is strange since she did not have a propensity for that sort of thing. She had learned to speak at two years old and hadn't said anything nonsensical since. Even if you consider her dolls a fair bit of nonsense, she was very proper about them. She'd make up rules about where they sat around a little painted wooden tea table in the nursery where they had a tea party's And she took to scolding them like a mother for being rude to each other or for being messy with their scones What's more, none of her other dolls had gone through this discovery process for their own songs

I say discovery because it was less that she was creating the song herself and more like she had encountered it from somewhere else Pretty soon we discovered that she was singing in a language she herself couldn't have known. We learnt this when one of our mother's friends, a refined lady of society, had come over for a visit. Our mother made sure we three children all presented ourselves to Mrs Harris and said our hello's and how do you do's. My elder brother all dashing and our younger sister in a modest clean dress. And then as my brother went back upstairs, my little sister put up. likely excused herself and went to the nursery on the ground floor to play with her dolls. The door to the nursery was ajar, because I was supposed to be looking after her,

even while I sat outside at the sidelines, more fascinated by the grown-up talk in the living room than my sister's cooing over her playthings. Ine. She began singing the same song in a light, quivering voice. She sang soft, preoccupied and unsure of herself, but it was loud enough to be heard in the living room, and our guest shut up and listened. My mother was embarrassed and begged Mrs. Harris to ignore my sister, but our guest was curious. Where did she learn that song? My mother hesitated, then looked to me as if for help.

I stammered. We... We don't know, ma'am, she made it up. Delightful, said Mrs. Harris. her eyes lighting up. I'm so impressed that you're having her learn a second language. Always start them young, I say. Especially when it comes to a language as phonetically complicated as French.

They have to pick up on the proper accents when young, you know. She's singing in French, I said, startled. My mother and I briefly exchanged wide-eyed looks. Well, of course, said I guessed with a twinkle of a laugh. I know a fair amount of French myself, though I'm not very strong in it as I should be. My own mother was a French teacher, you know. Native English flew with French.

I can make out a bit of what little Sarah is singing. My mother regained a smile, trying to find a place in the conversation. Oh, well, you know, I think I've mentioned before my husband's got some European blood on his side. His great-grandparents were native to Brittany and their children married with English. I think his aunt was the last of them who really spoke French.

But we don't think about that art. aunt. She glanced at me and I nodded. That aunt might have had the French, but she also had the crazies. That's charming, said our guest, completely missing the meaning in our furtive looks. So, who's been teaching her? Is it that lovely preschool she goes to? It is a bit advanced for her age. Again, my mother looked at me for help. While at home, it was largely my duty to see to Sarah's education. Oh, I... I don't know, ma'am, I flushed.

She gives all the dolls a song. I really just think she made it up. Mrs. Harris laughed that twinkling laugh again, but it was a bit muted now, disbelieving. She looked at me with a challenging glint in a narrowed eyes and a teasing bright lipstick smile.

Is that right? I hardly think so. Do you know what she's saying? My mother said then, as if to come to my rescue. My little sister was still singing much more softly now, and then she stopped altogether and began quietly scolding some dull or other, until it was clear that there was no point in listening further. I guess shrugged her delicate shoulders.

Oh, it was something about a blacksmith, I can tell you that much, a blacksmith, then a prince and a little girl. But she was on the refrain quite a bit, and, from what I can remember of that, it was something like this. Jean-Tens Chanda, Janté de lafie d'almei, Jantens Chanda. Roughly translated, I hear the song, I hear the singing of the cursed girl, I hear the singing. We just sat there, listening to the gentle clink of ceramic from my sister's tea party in the nursery. A bit of an odd choice for a song for her age, isn't it? said I guessed.

But I suppose old folk songs are all like that It's got quite a haunting melody I feel like I should have heard it before But I can't in all honesty say I have After Mrs Harris had left My mother and I went to the nursery to talk to Sarah She didn't seem troubled that a mother and big sister Were both wearing solemn faces and asking about that song

We asked her to sing it for us again But she refused to She said she hadn't properly learned it yet that she didn't really know all the words. That's nonsense, darling, said my mother, fondly but nervously. You were singing the words so beautifully just now. Mrs. Harris heard you from the living room. Sarah felt silent and only stared down at the tablecloth,

fidgeting with a hem of a dress. She had always been such a shrinking violet, and she never was keen on performing any of her dull songs for us. They were between her and the dolls only. so we weren't entirely surprised. Our father had come home at that point and my mother left the nursery to go to see him leaving me alone with my sister.

I watched her rearrange the tea things a bit and then asked her where she had learned Amandine's song. Sarah only glanced me for a moment and then away as if debating with herself on whether to tell me. Quietly she said. Amandine taught it to me. I glanced at the doll

at a place of honour at the head of the table, as if the doll itself could verify this claim. I don't know what I was expecting. Amandine was older than the other dolls, even when she was new to the house, and looked quite out of place among the others, with a muted, milky face compared to the shiny plastic of the other doll's rosy cheeks. Amandine's flaxen hair was also a bit thinner and a touch duller than their glossy synthetic curls, and a flocks was old-fashioned and sensible. With a cherubic expression, all demeanour and almost bored,

she came across as the eldest among them, the spoil sports in that ring of colourfully dressed, laughing baby faces, as though she was some infant Flemish angel looking down a nose at a group of ditty schoolgirls. Even from her proportions, you could tell she was made from a different era, when dolls were made to look like shrunken girls rather than babies. She was clean and very well taken care of with the rest of them. them, though I could see there were faint cracks of age creeping up from a little porcelain chin, and it seemed she was going a bit bold on one side.

Her disenchanted baby blue eyes stared blankly at the wall over my shoulder. The next time I could get him alone in his study, I asked my father where he had gotten the doll. It was the only one who knew where it came from, and it kept it a secret all this time. It had been his birthday present to my sister a few months ago when she turned five in my March. We'd always assumed he had gotten it off a second-hand shop or some garage sale, him being as cheap as he was. Yet he seemed to have chosen with care, knowing what might tickle a fancy. Amandine had quickly became my sister's favourite of the group. Thoughts you'd never ask, he said, grinning, which is why I never thought to prepare an answer. But now you mention it.

He dropped his voice and his smile. I'd gotten it when I went to your great Aunt Leah's funeral last year She died in the In the hospital, you know He meant the asylum I wouldn't know really I said We don't talk about those things

And you don't want any of us to come with you Father shrugged It wouldn't have been right None of you knew her as it should be In any case I went to pay my respects And one of the other aged relatives asked about how all of you were doing, especially Sarah. You know how they all dote on her.

And when I mentioned your sister will be turning five soon, she knew what she might like and brought out this doll. He frowned slightly, as if to recall the details from hazy memory. It was one of the several dolls that belonged to a cousin's sister of mine. He said, The daughter of my craze aunt Leah, God-keeper soul. I didn't know her too well. She died before I was old enough to remember

Anyway He continued brightly A mandine had many dolls I heard Quite like your little sister And this was the only one of a collection That seemed to have survived Or aged well I forget which

So I accepted it as a present He smiled in conclusion But I was still several steps behind in this anecdote Staring at him in cold shock Did you say Amandine? Yes. Who's that?

My cousin's sister, he said simply. But I could tell he was holding something back. People always got antsy when talking about that side of his family. But I persisted, and this was the story I managed to drag out of him. The doll hadn't really belonged to his crazy Aunt Leah, but to a daughter, this cousin's sister, Amandine, who my father hadn't known because she had died as her. a girl, or at least they assured she died because she had simply disappeared. After that, great-aunt Leah went crazy.

They thought she'd been crazy and only became outwardly so after a daughter died. They also said Leia had killed Amandine in cold blood. After a mandine had disappeared, and rumours were divided and inconclusive about how. Leah hung all the daughter's dolls from a tree in the backyard, dangling from their little porceling necks with twisted cords of knitting the little. yarn, gardening twine or hair ribbon. In the night she went creeping around the house, circling the tree, sometimes silently and other times crying hysterically. Every now and again her husband, our grand-uncle, would see her through the bedroom window, strangling the hanging

dolls or swatting at them, striking them repeatedly as they song wildly from the branches. She would scream curses at them and tear her hair and wail like a madwoman, disturbing the neighbours. Nothing he did would keep her from this behaviour. And the one time he attempted to take down the dolls from a tree, Leah turned down him viciously. They put her away, for everyone's safety. It had been rumoured that Leah was haunted by a guilty memory of Amandine, that she had hung the girl's doll from the tree to kill any traces of the dead girl. Her husband attested to the fact that his wife was convinced their daughter was evil. They thought Leah was insane when she said the dead girl.

dolls were evil too. She said she hung them from the tree knowing this wouldn't kill them since they did not breathe, but it would stop them from singing. Sometimes they would try to sing despite the constrictions anyway and she would strangle them to shut up. Our great uncle could not attest to hearing any such singing but he was increasingly concerned and alarmed by the way his wife dealt with these dolls and the effect they had on her. When she tried to burn them, she would feel her own flesh in the flames. She would try to bury them, but then we'd go and bring them back again

after a few days, as if it had tormented her to leave them there. She covered them in salt and dried herbs from mystic-quike doctors, then cleaned them off again, complaining of skin rashes that only cleaned up when she cleaned off the dolls. She went to a bridge and tossed a few in the river,

and then had nightmares about drowning. She never dealt with more than one doll at a time, She would never let anybody else touch them or even go near them. It was hard to say whether she was protecting the dolls from other people or protecting people from the dolls. Before she could get rid of all of them, she was locked away. And being asked to explain herself, she said she was waiting for forgiveness. She insisted that she couldn't get rid of all of them at once, because it was through them that she might have received forgiveness from the other side, from a moment.

aside from a mandeen. As far as anybody knew, she died without having gotten this forgiveness. The attempts to get rid of the dolls were threats that she didn't want to carry out fully. This last doll was the one that had survived more or less intact from her strange attempts. And my father thought it was a good idea to give it to his daughter next. The poor, sad man. I found myself at the end of this story hugging myself as though I felt cold. despite the warmth of that time of year. Did you tell any of this to Sarah?

I asked. Somewhere in the house, outside his study, there were doors opening and closing, busy footsteps rushing here and there, up and down the stairs. My father frowned? No, of course not. What would be the point?

Am I only frighten or confuser? I think we need to take that doll away from her, I said, beginning to grow even colder with fear. Why, what's the matter? Said my father, noticing that I'd paled. I shook my head weakly, not knowing where to start. She named it a mandine.

What? The doll, Sarah named it a mandine. Has she? Well, that's... My father fell silent for a moment. I don't know that. She never told me, and I never told her anything about my cousin. The doll told her its name, I said, and it's teaching her to sing.

My father stared at me as if I'd completely lost him. He's teaching her to sing the song your crazy aunt kept hearing when she'd killed your cousin. Still, he stared, as if he couldn't quite understand, and I grabbed his hand, frustrated. Father, there's something wrong with this doll. It's dangerous. take it from Sarah. Already I was moving away, intending to go to the nursery where I thought she would be, but I stopped short before I could. My elder brother, Philip, had thrown open the door to the study before I had even reached it. His face red and his breathing hard. It looked

like he'd been running. Either of you two since Sarah around, he said with a forced calm, but I could see he was unsettled, struggling against an inner well of panic. Mom's looking for her. We left the study with him until that mother was moving into the house from the garden just then. She seemed in a fluster, and usually neat hair was a bit untidy,

her eyes wide and a breathing shallow. Have you seen your sister? She asked as soon as she'd seen me. Philip just asked us the same question. I was just about to... I began, but Mr. Otis, a neighbor, who had been helpful in the past,

burst into the front door. He too looked like he'd been running. He looked at my mother with a panicked expression on his face and shook his head just once. But it was enough to drive a knife through my heart. What happened? I demanded. Sarah's gone. My brother said before my mother could say anything. My mother swatted at his arm.

We don't know that yet, Philip. She'd been in the garden with me. She explained to us. And we could see her eyes begin to gleam with unshed tears. We were seen to the herb garden, the rosemary. She wanted to go check the flowers at the window boxes. She was gone a while and I began to worry. I called and she didn't answer.

I sent your brother to go around the house and look for her, and before long I called Mr. Otis to help us look to. I was about to go to the nursery, I said, breathless now too, though I hadn't been running. She's bound to be in there. That's the first place I checked, said my brother. irritated in his now obvious panic. You don't suppose I'd think to check the most obvious goddamn...

Philip, my mother scolded him. Just check for yourself, he shouted and turned and went back out the door, with my father and Mr. Otis close on his heels to go help him continue the search. Mother and I turned as one and went straight to the nursery. It was full of dolls and empty of my sister. Everything was tidy and arranged for their eternal tea time. I stepped into the room, staring down at the little table.

Where's a mandeen? I whispered. My mother asked a question from behind me, but there's too much of a rush in my ears to hear her. I turned and pushed past her, running up the stairs two at a time to find Sarah's bedroom. I stopped, breathing hard at the landing. I could hear her singing. Jean-ton chanty, Jean-ton chantyante. Her voice was a bit hoarser now, as if she'd been singing for hours.

But I was afraid for her to stop suddenly, sensing this would be my only connection to where she was hiding. Her words had gotten very slow as well, stretching each word out to eerie and unnatural dimensions. Jean-Tan Chante. Sarah? I called out, sprinting the rest of the way. Sarah, answer me, please. I tore open a bedroom door and found a room empty. No dull, no girl.

I checked under the bed, in the closet. Nothing in the bathroom. My room, my brother's room, my parents' room. The kitchen, the attic, behind the curtains. I was quickly running out of places to look. I was down to the cellar and up again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I was ready to scream.

And still, I could hear. their quivering little voice. Al-a-lou-ant-a-lante, jant-te, la-zou chante. Ma'-jolie, ma si-jolie, fidal anewi. It was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, impossibly quiet, like I myself were imagining it, or carrying the voice with me in my head. My brother never mentioned he could hear her singing.

Finally, I stopped at the far end of the hallway where there was a window looking out into the backyard and the garden. I could hear my parents downstairs, talking in increasingly concerned voices. I could hear doors opening and closing, heard them calling my sister's name out in the garden. Then I heard father on the phone with a police. I was crying now. I went to the window and lifted the sash just in time

to catch a glimpse of my brother running down the street with Mr. Otis, looking left and right, stopping neighbours and asking questions. I leaned there with my hands on the edge, supporting myself. Jean-ton chanté, chantan chante. La Fid am knee, chantan-chante. I listened and listened until I finally understood that this light, quivering voice, was not my sisters.

It had never been my sisters. She couldn't sing the words for us because she didn't know the words. She told us the truth. It hadn't been her singing. It never had been. My jolly, massie jolly, vidin la nois. I wiped my eyes and stared. In the crabapple tree in our backyard,

I noticed something pale like skin, hidden among the leaves. It was the missing doll, Amandine. nestled among the branches. She was hanging from a high branch by Sarah's hair ribbon twisted around her neck. Di Mo my fee, quita damny,

the basho-lande at the la blesse, sest set home the long della me, chak show ilvenet me torovi. When I got my brother to retrieve the doll from the tree,

I had it buried in her back garden. My parents did not question my decision, at least not allowed. I had been my sister's keeper, and I'd failed to protect her. They let me grieve how I wanted. Sometimes at night, I could hear a voice rising from the rose bushes, as if the roses were singing softly to themselves to keep from being afraid. I kept feeling the subconscious pull to the garden to retrieve a mandine from a living grave,

but I resisted. Dreams of suffocation were a small price to pay for keeping that thing underground and away from other children. The search for the missing girl raged on in the community until it was finally abandoned. It lived on as only some exaggerated tale for other mothers to threaten their disobedient children with, but nobody ever blamed was suspected Adol. We never found Sarah again. The rest of a doll. remain silent.